


Powerless (and I Don't Care It's Obvious)

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2012/UAN Era, Accidental Kink Discovery, Canon, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Humor, Loss of Control, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Watersports, imperfect kink negotiation, ot5 banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “Ohno,Lou, don’t make me laugh,” he whimpers. His Ribena-purple mouth twists into a glorious, breakable shape, and Louis’s heart stops. He shouldnotbe getting turned on by Harry’s full-bladder discomfort, his little twitches, his hips-stuttering. Andyet.





	Powerless (and I Don't Care It's Obvious)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HurdyGurdy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurdyGurdy/gifts).



> Happy birthday Jen!!!! There are a million kink exploration fics/PWPs I've promised you, so I thought I'd cross one off the list and crank out some pee stuff, FINALLY. Expect a sequel sometime very soon. I love you SO SO SO much and although this isn't a masterpiece I really hope you enjoy it and aren't too turned off by the inevitable typos it's probably got since it didn't have a beta ;) Thank you for literally everything you do, from express ordering me books to exploring the city to getting all our skin scrubbed off to teaching me how to better love myself by being my own best friend. Next down from me, it's you on the list <3333 Love youuuuu.
> 
> Everyone else: No shame, I like water sports! Been meaning to write this for awhile, realize it's not everyone's cup of tea, but for those of you who dig it, excellent, and for those of you who want to venture forth tentatively and check it out, godspeed! This is not betaed so pardon any typos!

=====

Louis has never thought pee-stuff was hot in his whole entire life. He probably would have ridiculed the shit out of any of the lads back in Donny if they ever told him they wanted a girl to pee on them or something. It was one of those kinks he knew in _theory_ people were actually into, but he still couldn’t remove it from the category of like, clown fetishes and superhero role-plays or other equally absurd things. It was a joke, as far as he was concerned. 

But that was before Harry pissed himself in their tour bus between Sheffield and London, and Louis accidentally became a changed man. 

The circumstances were not particularly sexy, really. They were woefully mundane. It’s just that Louis finds _Harry_ sexy, every little thing he does, actually, when he’s not finding him moving or endearing. As a result, the weirdest stuff has become sexy, or moving, or endearing to him. The way Harry sticks his tongue out before he eats makes him sort of cry if he happens to catch him doing it, which he does often because he spends a lot of time simply _watching_ Harry. The way Harry does accent impressions _so horribly_ is ridiculously cute, where Liam’s own ineptitude at the same stupid task annoys him, make him roll his eyes. He suddenly finds himself aroused by things like, leg hair and foreskins, which had not even been remotely on his attraction-radar before Harry. Being in love has _changed_ him. It’s always changing him, he's like, constantly in _flux_ because of it. It’s scary and wonderful. 

Then, the pee-thing happens and it’s not only scary and wonderful, it’s down right miraculous. Because like, _never ever_ would he have anticipated this in a million years. It probably wouldn’t have happened to him if Harry had been able to hold it on the car ride, but, as it turns out, holding it turns out to be harder than anticipated. 

This is how it goes: 

Paul and Marco tell them about eight thousand times when their last bathroom break is before the final stretch of their journey. They’re running late because of a meeting that went over-long and it’s _entirely_ none of their faults, but they’re still being shuffled along and scolded like children and Louis, for one, is rather miffed by the whole thing. He pees grudgingly anyway, and Harry does not, because apparently he doesn’t have to pee, which is totally fair. However, Paul harps on him about it, reminding him they won't be able to stop on the way to Sheffield if they want to make it to their next engagement on time and Louis, huffily, intervenes and says “Listen, we’re not _kids,_ mate, ok? Don’t patronize us,” and Paul throws his arms up and wanders off, rolling his eyes and grumbling about how they _are_ kids, and how Louis’s shouldn't be allowed to use words like _patronize_. Louis feels triumphant. He doesn’t know it yet, but he should have perhaps let Paul cajole Harry into pissing. After all, this is the first step in his journey to a goddamned _fetish_ or something. 

In the van, Harry and Louis sit in the very back, snuggled up as always. Harry has his head on Louis’s shoulder and Louis gets to play with this curls, which is awesome, and they’re sharing a Ribena which is also awesome because Harry’s lips are a sweet dark purple from it like a bruise, and Louis gets to kiss them when there’s not a camera around, and there isn’t right now, which means he’s kissing them a lot. He’s feeling very complacent and lucky. 

Niall, who is sitting in the seats in front of them, is also drinking a Ribena, but it’s making him burp, which he’s thrilled about, so he burbs the entire alphabet for them. He’s about to start a second round when Zayn rips out his headphones, grabs the Ribena, and chucks it into the back-most seats. It sails onto the floor and rolls against Harry’s foot.

Harry picks it up and drinks the rest, because Harry is the sort of person who just does stuff like that, germs be damned. Louis would think it was gross if it were literally anybody else but it falls into the endearing category somehow, so instead, he’s pitifully and irredeemably charmed. 

Harry also drinks an entire water bottle. He might even drink two. There’s an entire twenty pack of cheap bottles water back here with them, because Paul is obsessed with making sure they’re hydrated because he’s clearly _certain_ they’re children who don’t know how to take care of themselves. Louis is ruminating on how obnoxious this is when Harry sits up, shifts his weight and announces, “Can we stop soon? I have to use the loo.” 

Marco turns around in the passenger’s side and shoots them the _most steely_ stare. “Boys. _No stops until Sheffield._ We talked about this. You were all supposed to use the loo before—”

“Oh, I tried,” Paul snips, eyes fixed on the road. Louis is sure, if he wasn’t driving, he’d be glaring right in his direction. “Hold it, Harry. We’ll be there in about forty five minutes.” 

Harry makes a face. “Forty five minutes?! I can’t hold it that long.” 

Liam, suddenly aware now that there’s something he can swoop in and be condescendingly rule-abiding about, turns around. “Harry, you were _supposed_ to go back—”

“Oh my _god,_ not you _too!’”_ Louis yelps, feeling defeated. He hates when Liam sides with their handlers out of some moralistic obligation. He’s always trying to get Liam to break rules and loosen up and have a good time, but he’s so _dead set_ on being anxious. 

“I’ll be really fast, if we stop,” Harry assures Paul, still convinced this isn’t really happening and he can con Paul with his wiles. Louis understands because this tactic sometimes works, when Paul is in a particularly suggestible or worn down state, but he’s observably _rigid_ today. He’s not going to let Harry sway him, particularly since Harry is Louis’s boyfriend, and he’s clearly fed up with Louis right now. 

“If you’re—” Marco starts to concede, but Paul and Liam cut him off.

“ _No stops,”_ they remind him, in different tones, (Paul’s grave, Liam’s reproachful). 

And that’s that. 

“Paul is a prick today,” Louis whispers, turning to Harry, winding a curl around his finger. “Bet I could convince him to pull over,” he lies, just wanting Harry to know he’d fight for his honor, his right to pee in a Petrol-station loo if he wanted to. 

“Nah, s’alright.” Harry says, wincing as he adjusts. “It’s fine. I can wait.” 

It turns out that it’s _not_ fine, and he _cannot_ wait. Ten minutes later he’s full-blown wiggling around and whining, lifting his hips and making pained expressions. Louis, in spite of himself, is pretty amused (slash endeared slash moved, because everything Harry does is so weirdly compelling and human and wonderful it like, _inspires_ him). “Oh my god, look at you, you’re gonna pop.” he says fondly, unbuckling Harry’s seat-belt to relieve the pressure a bit. If they crash, he’ll hold onto him tight, keep him safe. “Maybe unbutton your pants?” 

“Ugh, yeah,” Harry grumbles, unlatching his belt and popping the fastenings of his khakis, unzipping. Louis’s mouth waters, because he’s like, fucking Pavlovian at this point when it comes to Harry’s prick and the sounds of it being released from its trappings. “This is the worst. Why won’t they just _stop,_ it will take _three seconds.”_

Liam turns around to face them, expression earnest and voice matter-of-fact as he says, “Probably like five minutes minimum, actually, and we’re running behind schedule. Maybe you should try meditating, Harry. Used to help me during long track meets, when I had to wee.” 

“Liam _piss off,”_ Louis tries to say with any sort of authority, but it dissolves into laughter. The idea of Liam running track is just too funny and the idea of Harry trying to meditate is just too cute. “Harold’s fine, here. We’ve only got about what…half an hour left? Tops?” 

 

“Thirty four minutes,” Liam announces, checking the time on his mobile. 

Harry groans, arching his back and fidgeting. Louis pats his arm sympathetically. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have _stolen_ and mercilessly drank my Ribena,” Niall says, somewhat cuttingly. Niall can be shockingly cutting, when the circumstances call for such things. Louis admires it. “You know what always helps me when I have to wee?” Niall announces, gaze shifting back and forth between Harry and Zayn, whom he has clearly not forgiven yet for ending his burp session. 

“What?” Harry, who is easily baited, asks. 

“I think of like, a faucet. Just….dripping. Steadily. Or, like, Niagara falls. Or, like, how after a rainstorm the water just _pours_ out the storm pipe,” Niall says, grinning, eyes bright, and Louis _should stop him_ but he’s also human and this is _funny_ and Harry is so fucking sexy-adorable when he squirms. 

Luckily, Harry cracks up too. “You’re the worst,” he grinds out, voice low, hands over his stomach. “If I pee, m’gonna aim right for you. Just whip my willy out and point it at your face.” 

“Open wide, Niall, it’s an awful big willy,” Louis adds, without missing a beat. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. 

Harry is snorting he’s laughing so hard now, wheezing as Liam shoots him a very, very concerned look. “Oh _no,_ Lou, don’t make me laugh,” he whimpers. His Ribena-purple mouth twists into a glorious, breakable shape, and Louis’s heart stops. He should _not_ be getting turned on by Harry’s full-bladder discomfort, his little twitches, his hips-stuttering. And _yet._

 _“_ You’re a _mess,”_ Louis says, in awe, privately to Harry. They’re good at this sort of thing, really, private conversations in a crowded room (or crowded van). They can just slip away together, forget the whole world, silence it in their bubble their second they make eye-contact. “I sort of like it,” he admits in a hush.

“You like me _about to piss myself?”_ Harry says incredulously, mouth so close to Louis’s he can taste the sweet fruity huff of his breath. “You’re weird.” 

The honest, rough vulnerability of him saying _piss myself_ make’s Louis’s dick twitch. God. He adjusts the way he’s sitting, positively _astounded_ things like this just _happen_ to him, getting _hard in front of his friends_ because his boyfriend has to _wee._ He thought being in love was all daydreaming and candle-lit dinners, but it’s actually inopportune boners at inexplicable things. 

_“_ I just really love you,” he admits, reaching for Harry’s arm, thumbing into it. Niall giggles, Liam looks away, flushed, but Louis hardly notices them because they’re _outside_ the bubble. “You know, s’ok if you can’t hold it. I’ll still be _so_ fucking into you,” he assures Harry, failing to tell him he might even _like_ watching it, for reasons he cannot yet articulate. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, frowning. “I wish I could like, confidently say I can hold it. But m’scared.” 

“Oh yeah, Harry? Imagine a dam breaking, or a street flooding or summat. It’ll help,” Niall chides, and Louis suddenly remembers he’s there. 

“Quit,” he says, swatting at Niall’s arm. “You’ll make it worse.” It’s non-committal, though, curious. He’d lay off if Harry wasn’t _loving_ being the the center of attention, visibly glowing and preening under the attention even though he’s about to piss all over the backseat. 

“It doesn’t even matter now, what I think about. It’s like, a physical thing. Just pain,” Harry explains, sounding shockingly calm for someone who cannot sit straight or normally any longer. “Like, _ow._ If I sit down.” 

“Niall,” Zayn says, finally loud enough to be noticed. It’s possible he’s been saying _Niall_ unnoticed at a lower volume up until this point. “Tickle him. It’s _physical_ now? If you want to exact your revenge, I recommend tickling.” 

Louis sees the moment Niall forgives Zayn. He grins at him, wild and feral with wide blue eyes before unbuckling his seatbelt and lunging for the backseat, ignoring Liam and Marco and Paul’s sounds of protest. He grabs Harry around the waist where he’s soft and padded, and Harry shrieks, wriggles, twists away. Niall holds fast though, mercilessly scrunching his fingers up at Harry’s soft spots. 

Louis is okay with it for about half a second until he realizes _he_ should he the one touching Harry, the one tickling him until he pees. It’s not a jealousy thing, really, it’s not like he can’t handle Harry being touched by other people. It’s thatif Harry is going to be pushed from one state of being into another while he’s weak and compromised somehow, it should be _him_ doing it. Not _just_ because they’ve talked about such things before under other circumstances, boundaries and desire and control and teasing in public, but because Louis _loves_ him, and he _knows_ him, and he’s aware of what he _wants_ , what he needs. And it’s not _Niall’s_ fingers digging into his sides while he’s full to the brim and perhaps dripping, it’s _Louis._ Louis’s touch, Louis’s guidance, Louis’s control. So, he steps in. 

“Hello! Unhand him!” he scolds, grabbing Harry and fighting Niall away with his shoulder. They have an audience now, Marco in the rearview, looking like he hates his job, and Liam and Zayn, who are perfectly demonstrating two very different types of rapt. Louis elbows Niall and Harry wheezes, cheeks red, eyelashes wet with unshed tears. 

“Oh god, _fuck,”_ he hiccups, kicking at Niall. “M’gonna wee, I really will, if you don’t stop, I really—” 

Louis swoops close, lips against his ear for the briefest of moments, the most secretive and private of worlds. “Do you want us to stop?” he whispers. “Can you hold it?” 

“I don’t want you to stop,” Harry wheezes out, thrashing. “But no, _no,_ I cannot fucking hold it. I—fuck, oh my god,” and it sounds just like he’s coming, so _familiar,_ that loss of control, the gasping, the tensing, the hot rush of liquid. 

But instead of come it’s _piss,_ and it’s all over Louis’s arm he has braced across the crotch of Harry’s khakis, which have a dark spot spreading on them as Harry covers his face and half whimpers, half laughs in mortification. He’s been reduced to hysterics and Louis should be grossed out, or at least think it’s _funny,_ but instead he’s _throbbing_ in his own jeans, mouth watering at the _smell_ of Harry, briny and golden and wonderful because apparently Louis is no better than clown fetishists and people who get off on super hero role-play. 

Niall springs away, yelping. “Shit! Harry I didn’t actually mean to make you—it was supposed to be a joke! Gross!” 

Zayn is snickering, Liam looks like he’s two seconds away from an _I told you so,_ and Paul swerves the van while Marco curses. 

Louis, on the other hand, is trying to hide his tented pants while he comforts Harry, frantically and reflexively giggling, smoothing his hair and talking him down. “It’s fine, s’fine, love. We’ll make Paul pull over, this is _his_ fault, anyway.” 

“This is _your_ fault, Louis,” Paul might growl, but it’s hard to know. Louis is worried about other things. Like, the fact he has a hard-on, all because Harry pissed himself in the van. It’s very confusing. 

And it’s not the piss itself, really. The piss is almost as much of a side effect as the arousal itself. It’s more…everything else. Harry’s breathless moans, his pink cheeks. The way he likes everyone watching him whenever he’s visibly embarrassed. The way he came apart under Louis’s hands, _lost control,_ like he just—he _couldn't_ hold it together a single second longer. Louis shivers, squeezing Harry close to him for a moment, even though he’s all wet. The seat’s wet too, _he’s_ wet…everything is, everything around them a testament to Harry's loss of control at Louis’s hands and he _likes_ it, he likes it so much. Too much, maybe.

He strips his hoodie off and ties it around Harry’s waist when Paul stops at a petrol station, arm slung around his shoulder as they head off into the loo together, heads bent to avoid drawing attention. It’s dirty and ugly inside and Louis sobers up a bit under the harsh florescence, watching Harry clean himself up with paper towels, cheeks burning in shame. “I get it, you know, if you think m’gross now,” he grumbles, eyes darting up for the briefest of moments to scan Louis’s face. “Even though you sort of _made this_ happen.” 

“Hazza,” he says helplessly, arms crossed over his chest, semi still thick and hot and surprising where it’s trapped in his jeans. “Look, m’not gonna lie. I thought that was really hot.” 

“Don’t make jokes about that stuff,” Harry whines, grimacing at Louis as their gazes meet in the graffitied mirror. “I’ll get insecure, you know.” 

“M’not joking!” Louis assures him, coming up behind his body and reaching around, tentatively palming over Harry’s soft cock in his soaking wet briefs, since he’s shucked the ruined khakis already. “I _know_ I tease all the time, but m’being totally serious now. I mean, I feel embarrassed too, like, telling you. But It was _so_ hot. Seeing you just…come apart like that. In front of all the boys, because—cause’ I pushed you, while you were like. I dunno. Full,” he explains, shivering, pressing up behind Harry so his chubbed up dick nestles into the crease of his arse. “See?” 

“Erm,” Harry murmurs before laughing nervously, reaching around with a tentative hand to feel Louis though his jeans. “It was’t gross?” 

“No,” Louis tells him. “Or like, if it was, the hot part cancelled the potentially gross part out and I didn’t even think about it.” He pushes into Harry’s palm, smelling his hair: the product in it, the oil, the salty, dirty _Harry_ smell he loves so much. There’s an overlying pee-smell lingering around him too, from his clothes, and Louis is _astounded_ by how much he likes it, at least in this context, in the messy aftermath. Harry shuddering against him, asking for his approval, his cock thickening up against as it strains against the wet fabric. “You should get out of your wet pants,” Louis tells him, snapping the waistband. “I brought you fresh ones.” 

“Ok,” Harry says quietly, peeling the damp cotton down over his big cock, which is thick but soft, perfect for Louis’s hand to cover, feel out. It’s all wet, and Louis imagines how wet _he’d_ be if Harry had been naked when he lost control of his bladder, peeing all over them both, losing it on a hot, messy gush. He squeezes, thumbing over the crown of Harry’s cock until he gaps, scandalized. “Fuck, you liked it, you actually _liked it!_ I thought you were tying to make me feel better but…” Harry trails off, pushing his thickening cock up into Louis’s grip deliberately. “It got you off.” 

“Got me hard as fuck, didn’t get me _off,”_ Louis jokes, kissing Harry’s neck, the soft spot behind his ear. “You could get me off, though. In this nasty loo. If you wanted to.” 

Harry doesn’t even answer, he just spins around in Louis’s arms and kisses him hard, mouth sloppy and wet and Ribena-sweet. Louis grapples with him, pushes him up against the sink and buries his face in his neck while Harry unbuttons his jean and fists inside, wrapping long, sure fingers around his cock and jerking upwards. It’s only been a year or so since they’ve been together, but they’re so _fucking good_ at getting each other off, Louis can hardly believe it. Harry used to be eager and messy and that was good, but now he’s eager and _practiced_ and that’s even _better_ , and all it takes is a few minutes of rough, tight, glorious stroking before Louis is pulling Harry’s hair, panting his name, coming apart over his fist and dripping white down his knuckles. “Came so hard, thinking about me? In the van?” Harry asks, licking the side of Louis’s face as he shudders with the come down. 

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs through his panting, rubbing his hand up Harry’s naked thigh, desperately wanting to touch his cock, to feel it while it’s all wet, make him come undone _again._ He thinks this is his life’s calling, maybe: making Harry Styles lose control and fly to bits in every single way he can, over and over again until there’s nothing left. “Thinking about you making yourself so _wet,_ so _embarrassed,_ ” Louis tells him, rubbing up the front of his briefs, feeling how achingly hard Harry is through them. Harry whimpers at the word _embarrassed;_ it always drives him closer, _always_ gets him harder, squirmier, panting harder. Harry loves to be embarrassed, but he _especially_ loves when Louis calls him on it and rubs it in his face. He shivers, humping Louis's hand as Louis grinds him into the sink with his hips.

“Fuck,” he says thickly, rubbing his face into Louis’s shoulder, mouth a wet, open smear of purple against the collar of his shirt. “The wet—my pants. They’re cold.” 

Louis imagines the feel of wet, cold cotton on _his_ erection and winces. He almost asks _do you want me to get them off for you?_ when he thinks better of it, really _looks_ at the hungry way Harry is humping against him, bucking his narrow hips. He _likes_ it, likes the discomfort, the reminder of his mistake, his shame, his _accident._ Louis swallows a mouthful thick with saliva and grips Harry’s shaft through his pants, jerks on him. 

“Yeah? You like that? Feeling what you did?” be breathes, almost disbelieving that Harry is as broken and weird as he is, with his crossed wires and reflexive arousal where everything regarding his boyfriend is concerned. Harry is as gone as _he_ is, turned on by shit as suddenly and powerfully as he is, no matter how odd or unlikely. Lost to is simply because it’s _here,_ between them, being shared in their private world. He kisses Harry deep as he nods frantically, tugging on his cock, squeezing it greedily. “Think about it,” he gasps as he pulls away, their brows pressed flush. “You drinking too much before an interview, not able to sit still and me…me knowing _why._ Looking at you, knowing…knowing the second I get you alone instead of letting you go to the loo I’ll hold you down, sit on you, tease you until—“ 

“Oh fuck” Harry hisses, and then he’s shooting off in Louis’s hand, wetting his pants again, this time with ribbons of come, trapped inside the already damp prison of cotton. It must be so uncomfortable, and knowing Harry _likes_ that makes Louis shudder and groan in sympathy, suck against his thundering pulse. 

“God,” he groans, pulling away, eyes unfocused on the shiny wet skin of Harry’s neck. There’s no mark, which he’s annoyed by at the same time he’s proud. They’re so bad at not leaving marks even though they’re not supposed to, so Louis is always inventing new ways to reaffirm for himself and for Harry they belong to each other, that they’re _together,_ for better or for worse. _You’re mine because you lose control for me, you’re mine because even covered in your own piss I want to eat you alive. I’m yours because…well, m’yours. Yours and yours and yours._

Harry kisses him, looking giddy with his pink cheeks. “Think Paul’s popped a vein in his temple yet?” he asks, rolling his through ruined pants down his thighs and kicking them off. He wrinkles his nose at the mess before just tossing them into the rubbish all together, and Louis is moved, he’s endeared. 

“It’s possible,” he says, shrugging, hooking an arm around Harry’s neck and pulling him off balance to bury his face in his curls, rolled up on the balls of his feet to reach. “But I’ll stay in here with you until he breaks the door down, if you want.” 

And Harry, in his shoes and his shirt and literally nothing else, grabs a handful of toilet tissue and dutifully dabs at his pubes. “Sounds good to me,” he says, and Louis’s heart nearly breaks for how much he loves him, every weird, quirky corner and edge, every mess and every accident, from here until the end of time. 

 


End file.
